Heap of House
by Spot and Punk
Summary: Final chapter sees House two years post-infarction - happy anniversary?
1. Chapter 1

**Heap of House**

For the first time in a month, he doesn't feel spaced out. For the first time in a month, the leg doesn't hurt all that much. For the first time in a month, he wants to get out.

He wants to bounce down the stairs of their building and go for a run. He wants to feel the slick of sweat trickle down his back and to wipe the drops away from his eyes. He wants to feel that blissful ache in his muscles and the feeling of true physical exhaustion. He wants to flop into bed with limbs too heavy to move. He yearns for that drink of cool water to quench his deserved thirst and for the drops that will escape and course their way out of the corner of his mouth, down his chin and onto his sweaty t-shirt.

Instead, he lies awake in his bed and tries to work out how to relieve his urgent need to pee. Cautiously, he raises himself up onto his elbows and then twists his torso to the right. Carefully, he supports the leg and hefts it over and down. He ponders over the decision ahead; the walker or the wheelchair? Which cripple aid would do the job best? He's not supposed to move about too much on his own. He's supposed to wait for Stacy to help him up. He's still too weak and vulnerable for this kind of endeavour but he's damned if he doesn't just want to _not_ have to think about how to get out of bed.

It used to be a real no-brainer.

He pounds the edge of the bed in frustration. He throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut. How had this happened? The irony of it was not lost on him. Ace diagnostician ends up crippled by mis-diagnosis. It was enough to drive you crazy.

He lets out a tight laugh and turns his concentration once again to Mission Pee. Right then, walker it is. He grabs the damn thing and pulls it nearer with his right hand whilst planting his left in its appropriate position. He flexes his knuckles for a minute watching them turn white as his veins bulge out. In the background, he hears Stacy trying not to crash about in the kitchen. He knows she's trying not to wake him from a precarious sleep but also knows that she is pathologically predisposed to crashing, banging and all matter of other onomatopoeic descriptors of kitchen destruction.

Rocking back and forth in preparation, he takes a deep breath and hoists himself up onto his feet. He sways slightly as the room re-settles on its axis. Puffing out a breath he didn't realise he'd taken; he tentatively shuffles his right leg forward.

Somehow, he finds himself in the doorway to the bathroom and stops for a minute to congratulate himself. It turns out to be a premature celebration when his leg gives out underneath him and he crashes to the ground in spectacular agony.

Flashes and specks burst in front of his eyes and for a moment, it's hard to take in air. The electricity flashing up his leg from knee to groin seems to spike throughout his body finally settling bone-deep inside his damn thigh. From there, the pain thumps under the dressing and threatens to burst through his pyjama pants.

He waits open-mouthed for the room to stop spinning and for the contents of his stomach to re-settle before he dares to think about moving again. As he does so, he hears Stacy pad up the corridor of their apartment.

'Crap' he mutters under his breath and drops his head in resignation and shame.

Stacy rounds the corner and almost falls over the heap of House on the floor outside their room.

'God, Greg! What happened?! Are you okay?' she puts the mug of coffee down on the ground as she crouches down, 'Are you hurt?' he hears the panic in her voice and swallows the more choice words in his vocabulary.

He wants to shout and scream that he is hurt, that it always hurts but he is tired of boring everyone. He's tired of being _Greg-the-Patient_, of being _Greg-the-Cripple_.

'Yeah, I just needed to pee…' the words sound pathetic as he says them aloud.

'Why didn't you call me? I was just in the kitchen… you could have shouted…' she replies almost annoyed.

'I just… I just needed to pee. Okay? I just wanted to pee. That's all, just to pee.'

A flash of confusion crosses Stacy's face before she realises just how frustrated he really is.

'Honey, I get it. I get that you're mad, you're bored, you hurt. I really do but you gotta accept that you need help right now. _Are_ you hurt?' She repeats as she rubs a sympathetic hand down the trembling arm barely holding him up, 'Maybe I should run you down to the hospital, get you checked out?'

He can see her mentally amending the schedule to take into account the hours they would now spend back at PPTH.

'No! No… I'm okay, I'll be fine in a minute, really. I just _really_ need to pee.'

He hopes that the emphasis will be enough to remind her that he did actually have a reason for his attempted jail-break. She is jolted back to the here and now and begins the delicate process of helping him up from the floor.

He is a tangle of legs and walker and shame. The feeling creeps up his neck and flushes his cheeks. He thinks back to last month and the 10K runs he ran each week. It seems like such a long time ago and yet it's only been four weeks. Four weeks to adjust to life as a helpless cripple, four weeks of being trapped; trapped in hospital, trapped in their apartment, trapped in his own body.

'Here, let me get your pants' she says all business like.

'Hey, I can do it!' he wonders why that came out as if he were some petulant three year old.

'Okay… just yell you know, if you need me. Greg? Okay?'

'Sure' his huffed response.

The relief he feels as his pee hits the toilet bowl is immeasurable; the physical relief and the ridiculous relief of standing, peeing in his own bathroom. He ponders over the fact that with standards this low, no end of joy awaited his new existence. With a shake, he finishes and reaches to pull his boxers and sweat pants back up over the huge dressing covering the gaping wound on his thigh. He cringes at the thought of how it looks and cringes once more when the healing skin stretches uncomfortably with the movement.

'Greg?' a tentative call from the hallway reveals Stacy's position.

With another sigh, he submits to her help and calls out to say he's all decent and that yes he could do with a hand. Giving up on the damaged leg, he swivels round on the good one to meet Stacy with a small smile. He knows he's got to try not to be a total bastard.

'Stace?'

'Yeah?'

'Thanks okay? Just… I wanted to say thanks, for everything.'

'Greg, you don't have to say it. It's okay. I love you okay?'

'Yeah, I know, I love you too.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

After six months of gimping about, House had given up on the whole 'trying not to be a bastard' thing. He found himself day after day doing following the same routine of sitting on the bed, watching Stacy get ready, sitting on the couch, watching Stacy buzz about before work, T.V., breakfast with Stacy, P.T., lunch without Stacy, more T.V., dinner more often than not with Stacy again. She seemed to have slipped right back into her life and his resentment was reaching critical mass.

The boredom and frustration that had reduced him to tears when this nightmare first started had become a background noise swallowed down by the Vicodin he'd finally settled on as his drug of choice. He found the little white pills more than useful when it came not just to dulling the physical pain, but the burning entrapment he felt.

He shifts the coffee cup from his right to left hand more for something to do than anything else. He'd been staring out of the kitchen window so long that his drink had gone cold and his neighbour had left their building and returned with her weekly grocery shop. He gave a passing thought to what it must look like; a miserable looking forty-something, unshaved, unkempt apparition whose greatest excitement was the arrival of the mail.

Hearing the tell-tale rattle of the key in the door, he clips his arms back into his crutches and prepares to greet Stacy.

'Hey, how you doing?' nothing but pleasant.

'My God, what a day!' she throws her keys in the bowl as she grapples with carrier bags and her briefcase, 'That case I've been working on? Thrown out! All that work for nothing! Damn ignorant-'

'What have you got there?' he doesn't want to hear about her day, doesn't want to hear about her dealings with the outside world. There's a spark of anger niggling at him that he doesn't want to feel so he pops another of the sainted little pills.

'Oh, I went to the store on the way home. I picked up that new Dave Eggers you mentioned.'

He hefts himself nearer and reaches for the bag. A grunt of gratitude is the only thing that makes it past his lips as he struggles to swallow the acrid pill without water.

He's not sure why the anger is still bubbling up through his body despite his usual retreat tactic and thinks it's probably best if he tries to say as little as possible as he checks out the book.

'So, how are you doing honey?'

Her innocuous query seems to do nothing but push him over the edge. He's still raging inside and the urge he has to hit out at something, anything, is becoming unbearable. He keeps a tight reign on himself and instead of replying, stumbles off into their bedroom.

'Greg-'

Her shoulders slump as she realises she's in for another night of silence. She pines for the Greg of old, the Greg who would bound through their apartment filling it with energy and a vibrant buzz that seemed to shine in his wake. The man she is left with lurches stiffly like one of those push-up toys where the animal jolts itself from side to side as you thumb the button underneath. Yet there's something that keeps her going when she wakes in the morning. There is something left of him, a tiny spark of something that reminds her of the man she loved. It's this that sends her skipping up the corridor full of hope.

She pushes the door open hopping over the crutches discarded on the floor to try to thaw the permafrost that had set in.

'Hey, listen, why don't we go out? I've had an awful day, you've…' she trails off as she realises she's not entirely sure what it is that he gets up to during the day. She perches on the edge of the bed and rests her hand on his arm, an intimate gesture of companionship that only serves to reveal the tension beneath the surface of his skin.

He is sure he's about to burst. Her gentle touch feels like a burning poker as he desperately tries to suppress the flames threatening to spill out.

With the intended force and speed of a sonic boom he tries to snap past Stacy and storm out of the room. What he actually succeeds in doing is somewhat ungraceful and bumbling but effective. Focussing so heavily on trying to manoeuvre himself, it's not until he's blinking in the dying light of the day that he realises he has left the apartment.

With renewed direction, he struggles down the three steps to the pavement and adopts his _cripple on the move _persona. Head bowed and eyes glancing ahead on the look-out for potential obstacles, he swings and hops toward his destination.

He feels conspicuous. He's not exactly dressed for the outside world and if he's honest, he probably should have taken that shower this morning. His cripple uniform of sweat pants and crinkled T-shirt whilst comfortable, doesn't help but highlight him in this hour of smartly dressed commuters returning home from work. He briefly allows his mind to drift to his old life. He remembers balmy evenings just like this one when he and Stacy would drive home from the hospital. They would listen to whichever band was his new obsession on their car stereo and make small talk until they reached their front door. He remembers the happiness he felt just knowing that at the end of a long hot day, he would still find her curled like a hamster underneath the duvet. He would tangle his legs around hers and she would grouch about him being too cold and too hairy.

A drop of sweat snakes its way into the corner of his eye but he can't juggle the crutches to wipe it away and keep going at the same time.

His hands are burning and his shoulders threaten to pop out of their sockets as he realises this is the furthest he's tried to go on his own since Stacy decided to destroy his life. Still, he is determined and doesn't have it in him to turn back now.

Finally, he reaches a familiar picket fence and opens the gate. He winds his way up the path having no choice but to ignore the sweat blurring his vision. He's been swing-hopping for the last forty-five minutes and knows that when he stops, his body will not forgive him.

He reaches for the knocker on the dark-green door and bangs it with as much energy as he can muster from his red-raw hand. As he waits he slumps down the outside of the door to come to rest on the step.

This is it then, no going back now.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Wilson huffs up the steps to House's apartment building stiffly cursing his friend with every bump he receives. He thinks back to the day he'd found House on his doorstep; the day he'd finally finished it with Stacy. He'd felt nothing but pity for the wreck of a man who'd knocked on his door but then he thinks of the last three months of sharing his house _with_ House and he finds a renewed energy to heft the box of miscellaneous crap. There's no way he's sharing any longer.

Stacy had taken her time in moving, trying to wait House out. She'd called every day, she'd visited and tried every little thing she could think of to get through to him. He'd hunkered down at Wilson's avoiding her and nursing his battered ego. He had known somewhere deep inside that simple cause and effect would result in one of the biggest mistakes of his life but the haze he seemed to be existing in wouldn't reveal a clear path to the 'right thing to do'. Life was a blur of PT and the dizziness of his friend, the little white pill's side-effects but somehow his ridiculous pride and over-inflated opinion of himself still couldn't quite let him go.

House himself sits perched on a stool in his newly recovered kitchen. The leg is still recent enough that he is both hyper cautious and hyper clumsy. He has developed an air of indifference designed to perfectly hide the fact that he feels like he has a flashing beacon on the top of his head saying 'Cripple here!', but it denies the truth that every little blow sends bolts of agony flashing through his very bones.

He can hear Wilson cursing him out in the lounge but knows if he goes out there that there's a good chance he'll fall flat on his ass or knock something over with his damn crutches.

'You okay?'

'Huh, yeah, Jesus House what do you have in here?' Wilson mutters under his breath as House cautiously edges his way out into the living room.

'Just, you know, stuff I guess. Just put it anywhere I'll get to it later.'

Wilson can't get used to this new House version 2.0. His ears aren't tuned to the quieter voice, the stutter or the hesitations. What he says now seems honest, straight-forward. There's no deceit, no playfulness, no wit, no smart retort. He questions, he's unsure seemingly of everything around him. His eyes too, aren't quite as they were and seem sunken in his flat, expressionless face. House is grey and the only time his face does bend is to express pain or confusion. Wilson thinks his friend just needs some time and someone to watch his back. He thinks that soon enough, House will come back. He hopes anyway.

'I can't just leave it here, you won't be able…' Wilson trails off as he realise what a wounding blow he'd just pitched.

'Yeah, I guess you're um, you're right…' House seems to float off clanking as he goes, crutches kicking against the narrow walls of his hallway.

Wilson feels a weight in the pit of his stomach and lets out a deep breath. He stumbles with the box to House's bedroom and finds an empty space. A room that used to be full of life and junk and clutter neatly ordered and collected into drawers and cupboards and arranged artfully is now just a room with a bed in it; their bed. The bed he knew that House and Stacy had made their first joint purchase. Now it sits mocking in the middle of the room.

'She's gone then, really gone.' House seems to realise all at once what he had thought he'd wanted and what he'd been avoiding for the last three months.

Wilson pats his buddy on the shoulder and whispers, 'I know, I know.'

'So… I guess uh…'

House can't bring himself to finish the thought, or the sentence so he makes do with dropping his head in an effort to summon some sort of courage. Courage to get through the day, to rebuild some sort of life for himself. For him and his leg.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

He had managed to wake up when his alarm clock had sounded. He had greedily gulped down a Vicodin. He had managed to shower and shave and dress himself in a vaguely doctorish way. He had managed to stomach a piece of toast despite his lack of hunger. He had happily downed a large black coffee. He had managed to make it out of his apartment to wait on the sidewalk for Wilson to give him a ride. He had managed to listen to Wilson's pep talk on the way over and had even managed to nod and grunt at what he thought were appropriate moments.

He managed to balance his briefcase over one shoulder and angle it in such a way that it didn't tip him over each time his right leg made contact with the floor and he managed to endure an ill-timed slap on the shoulder from Wilson meant as some sort of encouraging gesture. Even the main entrance doors had glided effortlessly open at his arrival as though heralding his very return.

He has to admit, everything seems to being going well, for the moment.

He stomps through the entrance hall, gaze firmly on the lookout for potential hazards and prays that nobody notices him. He reckons he can bank on the fact that in a hospital at least, he has a modicum of invisibility.

He feels very alone and very conspicuous.

He almost wishes that Wilson hadn't gone off to the cafeteria for his breakfast meeting and was still beside him trying to take his mind off the long day stretching out ahead of him. The clink and clunk of his crutches seems louder in the vast atrium and not for the first time, House tries to will himself to blend in.

He is walking well now with the aid of the crutches and mostly uses a cane in his apartment but he hasn't had much practice at heaving himself around with luggage and over long distances. He was grateful to Wilson for dropping him at the main doors but he'll never let on.

He makes it into the elevator and nods a tight smile at colleagues who seem to be sneaking a second, third and fourth look at his new gimpiness. The ride up to the fourth floor is interminable and he begins to feel the rage that bubbled around Stacy building up in his chest. Eventually the bell pings and he clatters out gracelessly into the corridor. It takes him a minute to find his balance again but once he does, he sucks in a furtive deep breath to last him to his office door.

He breathes out the stored air like a woman in labour and finally reaches his destination. All that stands between him, a Vicodin and a chair is the glass door bearing his name.

He didn't reckon on the glass door. His head drops and his shoulders droop causing the briefcase to finally give up its perilous perch. He feels like giving up, turning round and going home but he knows that at this stage, that particular endeavour would put the Vicodin and chair further away. The sound of Waterman, the creep from the office on the other side of his rounding the corner breaks him from finalising his tactical analysis.

'Hey House, sorry about your leg man, welcome back.'

Great.

'Yeah, it's um…' the hesitation in his voice still shocks him, 'it's good to be back.' He gestures at the door and hopes that's enough of a reply to satisfy the nosy bastard and to signify an end to the conversation.

'So uh, I guess there'll be plenty of emails wait-'

House can't bear him to go on any longer and the rage he'd glimpsed in the elevator suddenly bursts out in venomous invective, 'Look I uh… I don't want to be rude but could you just get the hell out of my face!' Jesus, that sounded bad, 'God! I… look I…' he shocks himself into silence.

'Jerk! God, House!' Waterman storms off shaking his incredulous head and muttering obscenities under his breath.

As truly shitty as he does indeed feel right now, House also feels somewhere inside that he's entitled to be pissed off with Waterman; and the world.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The mug turns mechanically around inside the microwave and House can't seem to peel his eyes away. The night had been tortuous and ridden with the kind of ridiculous thoughts that can only plague you when you know you should be asleep. He had played out the conversation with Cuddy about his 'workplace needs' over and over again. The few dreams he had managed were bastardised versions of the argument they'd ended up having; that he had started just to put an end to the shame he'd felt. He had sat pathetically on the sofa in her office whilst she'd twittered on about the distance he _could_ walk, how much Vicodin he was taking _exactly_, how they might adapt his office and the bathroom down the hall, where best to put his parking space. As she'd piled leaflet upon leaflet about his rights as a disabled worker onto his lap, he had felt embarrassment creep up from his belly and cover his face in a burning hot flush.

He shakes his head to rid the last vestiges of the previous day and the night that never ended before responding to the bleep and removing his steaming coffee. He's still not figured out a way to carry a cup without the contents sloshing out over the edge and use the cane at the same time so he hops up onto the butchers block, his usual coffee-drinking spot and slurps at his mug. Wilson had given him a ride every day since he had been back at work but once he'd figured out how to drive just using his left leg, he had relished his new sense of freedom and independence. What had been a simple and hopefully subtle, request to HR about the possibility of having a parking space nearer the building had resulted in Cuddy blowing her caring-top and bringing in the heavy disability artillery.

He thinks about how he has managed to avoid total gimp-dom in the six months he's been back. He thought he'd been okay just trying to get on, doing his best to blend in and make out like he was still the man he used to be. Then he'd had a bad day.

_He'd managed to drive himself to work and hadn't caused any major or minor traff__ic incidents; he didn't count the little ding he'd left on that badly parked car he'd rounded on. A small smile escaped when he realised he had finally figured out how to control the accelerator smoothly with his left leg. Previous attempts had found him lurching forward like a kangaroo on speed He'd circled the lot three times hoping someone on the nightshift would have left a vacant space near the entrance. A glance at his wristwatch told him it wasn't likely but he was starting to get desperate. He wasn't on the best of terms with Niemler as it was and he certainly wasn't cutting him any slack now he was back in Nephrology full time. Eventually, he'd given up on the primo spacess and had headed down to his named spot. The last time he'd parked here was before the infarction when he'd been able to jog carelessly into the hospital without giving it a thought. No matter he thought to himself, he'd mastered driving and a short gimp into the building wasn't outside his capabilities._

_Fifteen minutes and fifteen rest stops later and he'd started to fight back against the growing panic he felt. He was completely at a loss. He was exactly equi-distant from his car to the main doors and didn't think he had it in him to move any further. His cell vibrated reassuringly in his pocket and he was pretty sure he knew last week's 'missed the bus' stunt was coming back to bite him on the ass. Niemler was a stickler for obedience and punctuality; he was sure he wouldn't have lasted this long if it weren't for Richmond's friendly heads-ups. He bet it was Richmond right now telling him to get his ass into work if he didn't want to be fired. He almost laughed at the thought that he could well die trying._

_With a__ nervous jitteriness coursing through his blood, House fixed his gaze on the glass doors ahead of him, lifted his cane and planted it one step ahead. At that exact moment he whipped his head round to answer the shrieking woman who had suddenly yelled out urgently,_

'_Look out__!!!'_

_An insipid, __'Huh?' was all he could get out before the cane was knocked out of his hand by a bowling ball thundering past him. His full body weight fell gracefully and in slow motion as the only thing holding him up at that precise moment was whipped out from under him. He patiently waited for the blinding agony that was sure to follow once the ground had come up to meet him face first._

'_Jesus! I'm sorry! I… my God, are you okay?' the shrieking woman called as she ran over to the heap on the floor. _

_House waited for the inevitable blinding pain. He waited some more, and he waited a little more still. Realising that for once the mysterious forces of nature had cut him some slack ensuring he'd landed on his left side he finally let himself think for just a second that he was alright and he deigned to raise his head. _

'_Don't move!' she shrieked again and he immediately ducked down once more for fear of another completely unexpected object heading in his direction. 'I'm a First Aider! Don't panic! Don't move!'_

'_Ugh…' House mumbled and shook his head as he started to lever himself up of the floor, 'It's okay, I'm uh… I think I uh…'_

'_Don't try to talk! I did a course on this at work! Can you hear me sir?'_

_House was jilted into action lest banshee-woman do herself an injury, 'Really, I'm okay, I'm okay!' a hint of joy made its way out of his throat as he lifted himself further up. Once he was sitting, he smiled fully as he realised he was actually okay. There'd be an awesome bruise on his butt cheek but the leg, that was okay. _

'_Sir, are you alright? Can you speak? Sir?!'_

'_I'm fine!' His smile started to fade at the insistence of the crazy woman with her hands planted on each of his. 'Really, I'm fine can you just…' he shook his arms gently trying to wriggle out of her grasp. As he broke free, he reached for his cane only to find it snapped into two pieces. _

'_I'm so sorry Sir! Please let me help you up!' the banshee squealed as she grappled with House's arms. Once she'd hauled him up he had to give her her due; she was one strong banshee.__ 'I go bowling on a Tuesday night, I was trying to get my bag from underneath and I balanced it on the edge. I must have just nudged it and sent it flying toward you… I'm so sorry! What can I do to help you? Are you on the way to see a doctor?'_

'_Look really, I'm okay. I think I uh…' House gestured to the now useless cane on the floor and then at the door in the distance._

'_Oh sure, just put you arm around me, really I'm pretty strong just go ahead and lean on me! We'll have you there in no time!'_

'_Oh God.' House muttered in an attempt not to burst out laughing at the ridiculous situation he found himself in. If anyone had figured that he would have actually asked to be half-carried into the hospital by a squealing midget banshee, then there was something seriously wrong with the universe. _

_It was at the precise point when he was unceremoniously dumped in a chair in the clinic and he felt he couldn't get any more pathetic, that he promised he would swallow his pride and go to ask HR for a handicapped parking spot. He just about managed to huff out a thank you to the banshee and reassure her that he was indeed, fine and no she couldn't help him any more than she already had when Wilson opened the door to exam room two._

'_House! What happened?!'_

'_Oh, are you his doctor? Well…' just before she could launch into yet another unstoppable monologue, House snapped his hand over her mouth and pushed her, perhaps a little too forcefully, to the door._

'_Look! I'm okay! Really, you can go now! Thank you for your help but I'm okay!' His insistence and the slight look of a man driven to insanity flashing through his baby blues finally convinced the banshee that she could now leave her charge._

'_Well, if you're sure?'_

'_Yes! I'm totally and utterly sure!'_

'_Well…'_

'_Go!' Maddened by her unfailing insistence, House shouted out a final command to the crazy little woman who just wouldn't give up._

'_House! There's no need to be a jerk-' Wilson hissed whilst turning to the funny little lady, '-Thank you so much for bringing him in.' In the end, only his most charming smile was successful in convincing her to leave. 'What the hell?'_

'_You want the truth or the lie you're more likely to believe?'_

_Grabbing a nearby pair of crutches and thrusting them at his friend, Wilson started to listen to the amazing chronicles of the bowling ball. That was the thing with House, you learned pretty quickly to expect the unexpected and believe the unbelievable._

Snapping out of his reverie, House hops off the block and drops his cup into the sink. He reaches instinctively for the new cane that he's still not quite adjusted to and lurches off unsteadily to grab his briefcase. Reaching for his keys, his hand finds the handicapped placard he's supposed to display on the dashboard. A slight shake of his head reveals the indignity he feels but belies the truth of the matter; he needs the handicapped parking space.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The whiskey burns slightly as it oozes down his throat leaving a trail of thick viscous gloop in its wake. The after-taste lingers and has that medicinal quality that only a decent bottle has. As the fire flickers in front of him casting a sporadic glow round the room, House adjusts his position on the sofa and breathes out, satisfied, warm and almost pain-free.

His eyes start to droop shut and his mind wonders off into the no-man's land between dreams and reality. Soft, grunting snores escape from his half-open mouth and his head lolls off to the side jerking him awake like the ebb and flow of the sea.

He's not sure how long he's been out for but when he wakes to the frantic pounding on his door, the light outside has disappeared. He stands up trying to shake out the confusion of waking abruptly and hobbles over to the door holding onto his leg as though trying to keep it attached.

Turning the knob, the door bursts open to reveal an anxious-looking Wilson on the other side.

'House! I've been calling you for an hour! Why didn't you answer?'

'Phone's on silent. I'm trying to have a quiet night… to _myself_. Can't a girl have one night to paint her nails?' he answers coquettishly.

Wilson pushes past him and scans the room seemingly on the look-out for any nefarious goings-on.

'I'm an innocent man dude! Show me the warrant!' House places his hand over his heart in a mock gesture of honesty and innocence.

'Shut it House! I was worried, I uh I know what today uh means…' Wilson fades out as he realises that House genuinely doesn't seem to know what he is talking about. 'You know?' he nudges, desperate for a way out of the embarrassment he has created for himself.

'No…' he replies with a dangerous edge in his voice, he can't help but assume the outcome won't be a good one. ' … it's Tuesday, it's January – care to enlighten me?'

Wilson can only blame himself for the disaster he's about to unleash.

'House, it's been two years since you uh, since the infarction.' Wilson lets his words linger in the air for a minute before he continues. 'You've been quiet lately, I haven't seen you… I've been getting worried that uh…'

'Jesus! That what? That I'd _off _myself? You think some meaningless date on the calendar would move me to what? To overdose? To hang myself? Tell me Wilson, what exactly did you imagine you would find?' House is angry now and the disgust pouring out of him leaches from his mouth and burns from his eyes.

He hobbles back toward the sofa when he realises he has been standing for a little longer than his leg will allow. Pouring another shot of whiskey, House turns toward Wilson and glares.

'You should go now.'

The simplicity of the command overwhelms Wilson and he can't formulate a response. Resigned to his failure and with a foreboding sense of regret, Wilson leaves House's apartment.

On hearing the door close, House allows himself to drop his anger like a coat on a hot day. He surprises himself by thinking back over the last two years and can't believe that so much time has passed; and that he hadn't noticed.

Never having been one for anniversaries of any kind, the day itself isn't what consumes his mind. Instead a sudden deep weight swoops over his body as he thinks back to the prognosis that Cuddy had made when he was in hospital.

His time is up.

Cuddy had said and he knew himself that after two years, the pain and the mobility wouldn't get any better.

This was it then, there'd be no more improvement.

He wouldn't walk again. The cane was here to stay. The pain was here to stay.

He was Greg House: Cripple.


End file.
